Less Than a Fistful
by Pantsman76
Summary: In the old west, a professional bounty hunter feels he hasn't been paid enough money for a job. He goes on a self-centered quest for revenge.


Less than a Fistful

Garth Stetson looked over the canyon on which his horse stood. Underneath was a vast valley, with towns and lakes in the distance. He took off his hat, wiped his brow, and removed his eye patch. It was scorching hot out, and it made his face feel uncomfortable. He rubbed his dirty, scraggly head of hair. He'd been searching for days. Based on the information he'd received on his search, this was where he was supposed to be. He put the patch back on, covering the empty hole in his head. As he put back on his hat, he jumped off his horse. When he hit the ground, dust and dirt flew all around. It was about 2 o'clock now. His time would come any minute. He took a swig of water from his canteen. He had to be ready at a moment's notice.

He went over to his saddle. With a quick flick of his wrist, a string was pulled, allowing a carpet of weapons to unroll and hang in front of him. Each of them was unique, and had a special purpose. He looked over each one, thinking about which would be best. Indecisive, he looked over the canyon again, at the road in the distance, thinking about the range of the weapon he should use. He moved back over to the saddle. The 1874 Sharps carbine had a large, powerful round. That would do it. He pulled it out, and grabbed a box of ammunition out of his saddle bag. He opened the breech of the rifle and pushed in a 50-70 Gov't. He closed it, aimed it at the road, and pulled back the hammer. As if on cue, his target began to ride through the road below. Garth drew in a slow breath and squeezed the trigger.

Though the way down was a little treacherous, Garth made it down, found the body of his prey, and began to search it. It was him, alright. Charlie Ross. Garth drew the wanted poster from his pocket. One-hundred and fifty dollars dead or alive. An army deserter turned bank robber. Storing away the poster, Garth whistled for his horse. He picked up the body and threw it over his shoulder. He laid it on the back of the horse. Blood was on the shoulder of his vest. As he began to wipe it off, he noticed something shining over by where the body of the outlaw once laid. It looked like a bag. Garth cautiously walked over to it. Once he recognized what it was, he began to sprint. It was a sack of coins! He looked around nervously and grabbed the bag. He walked over to his horse, still eyeing around to make sure no one was watching, and laid it gently in his saddle bag, tucking it in tight. He climbed back on his horse, and pondered about where poor Charlie had gotten so much money. Bank-robbing? He must have. There was more than a month's worth of money in that sack. But it wasn't time to think about that now. Garth still had a mission to complete. He had yet to receive payment for his latest bounty.

People stared at him as he slowly rode into the small town. The citizens of Lago were obviously not accustomed to fierce men riding into town with dead people lying on the back of their horse. His eye patch made his other eye stand out. It was focused on the sheriff's office. His beard, dirty and unkempt, displayed his experience and wisdom. They watched in awe as the cowboy hitched his horse in front of the sheriff's office, pulled the body off of his horse, slung it over his shoulder, and walked inside. This man was obviously not one to be reckoned with.

Garth dropped the body right in front of the sheriff and handed him the poster without speaking a word. The officer didn't speak either. He just sighed and knelt down in front of the body. He studied the face on the body, comparing it to the one on the poster. After switching gazes between Charlie's face, Garth's face, and the face on the poster, the sheriff grunted. He made small, slow steps over to a safe tucked behind his desk. Garth stared him down as the sheriff seemed to take forever opening it. After what seemed like infinity, the sheriff rotated around and threw a stack of bills on the table between him and Garth. Eying the sheriff and the money, Garth picked it up and began to count it.

"Not enough," Garth muttered. The sheriff still gazed at him as Garth looked out the window to his saddle bag, which contained a bag with more money than he had just made. Money that had been made by robbery. Bank robbery. Charlie Ross had made more money robbing one bank than Garth had in one hunt for an extremely dangerous criminal. Garth slipped the money into his front pocket, and without looking back at the sheriff, or uttering another word, marched out the door.

The citizens examined the strange man as he took long, determined steps out of the sheriff's office. The expression that came from behind his rustled beard and furrowed brow told them he was angry. This definitely was a fellow who you didn't want to be around when he was angry. He climbed up on his horse and trotted away. He passed over a hill in the distance, and was soon out of sight.

Garth flicked his wrist, holding the string attached to his saddle. He looked at the vast array of rifles and carbines that unrolled before him. The 1866 Yellow Boy would be good. The brass frame shined blindingly in the sun. He took it, slipped it into the rifle holster on his back, and rolled the arsenal back up. He checked his six-gun. It was fully loaded. He pulled his bandana from his satchel and tied it around his long and messy face. All that was visible was one squinty, black, and intimidating eye. After checking his equipment, he sat down and laid back on the hill, closed his eyes, and took a short nap. He would need to be alert later.

A figure came over the hill. The town of Lago looked as it came on a horse, spraying dust behind it as it sprinted onward. Was this the man who had been there not less than a few hours ago? Why was he chasing toward them? Lago was such a small town, it couldn't defend itself against such a man if he intended to do harm to its people. They only had two policemen! What were they going to do?

Garth jolted his horse to a stop in the middle of the street. He drew the rifle from his back, his single eye scanning the area for trouble. He hopped off, rifle in hand, and ran over to the bank on his right. As soon as he burst inside he fired his rifle in the ceiling. Nobody was there to hear it but the teller. Garth struck the lever forward and back again as the empty cartridge hit the ground, making a sharp ping. The noise of the shell bouncing around on the floor filled the empty air, clinging endlessly for what seemed like eternity, like an orchestra of bells playing to a vacant crowd. Garth's hearing began to clear back up again. A barred door stood between him and the vault that held his prize. His fortune.

"Open it!" he screamed to the coward of a man behind the bars. The teller came to the door, fumbling with his keys which flew around his hands. He struggled to fit the key into the lock, but he eventually got it. As he opened the door with a loud shriek, he met the eyes of the outlaw who stood before him. Was he going to die? Was this it? Would this man spare him? Who was he? Why was he doing this?

Garth took his gaze off the cowardly banker, staring at the safe where all his money lay. Keeping his focus on his goal, Garth threw the banker into the wall where he curled into a ball and began to weep. Garth opened his satchel and pulled out one stick of dynamite, and a box of matches. He shoved the stick into a crevice in the vaults lock. He pulled out a match, struck it on his shoe, and lit the TNT. Drawing his pistol now, he walked back to the front of the building, pulling the banker along with him as he lay on the floor. The teller's big, spectacled eyes and long, bony face were covered by his skinny hands as he hid in shame.

Garth muttered at him, "Get outta here, coward." The teller ran off screaming and crying into the street. Garth pointed his revolver at the door, laid his palm on the hammer, drew it back to full cock, and pulled the trigger. As soon as he drew his hand back, the hammer would strike forward, hit the primer, ignite the gunpowder, and send a bullet flying forward towards the opening of the door.

The inexperienced sheriff rushed inside, eager to defeat his new opponent. Garth drew back his hand. A bullet whizzed through the air, striking the young sheriff in the heart. The sheriff's Peacemaker slipped out of his fingers, and he grasped his chest. He stumbled around, trying to grab something to keep himself steady. Blood began to trickle onto the floor from the hole in his tin star. The sheriff took one last look at the bounty hunter and regretted not paying the full amount. With one last sigh, the lawman fell to the floor, dead.

Behind Garth, the dynamite blew, sending shrapnel throughout the back room. Keeping his eye on the door for another moment, and taking a quick glimpse at the bloody body of the sheriff, he holstered his handgun and went to the safe. Three bags, filled with dollars and coins, called out to Garth as he grabbed them with his left hand. He smiled crazily underneath his bandana as he realized that he was much richer than he could ever dream. Bags in hand, Garth traveled to the very back part of the building, where a door lay in wait for his escape. He redrew his pistol and cocked back the hammer. Kicking the door open, he pointed it side to side, seeing no one.

Thinking it was safe, he stuck it back in his holster, and whistled for his horse. Just then, a stray bullet struck on the empty land that lay in front of him. He was being shot at from above somewhere. He pulled out his rifle took cover behind the back of the building to his left. The rifleman was probably on top of the bank. Garth drew in a deep breath as he spun around the corner with his sights on the bank's roof. The rifleman's silhouette stood out as it stood triumphantly in front of the sun, rifle aimed. As Garth pulled the trigger, the silhouette stumbled down, falling off the roof of the bank, and on to the dusty, dry ground below. His badge gleamed in the sunlight.

Garth's horse came to him from around the corner, its silver fur glistening like gunmetal. The outlaw opened the saddle bags and threw the bags of money inside. He then pulled himself up on top of the animal. He pulled down the rag that covered his face. He breathed in a sigh of relief as the air hit his cheeks, cooling them down, like a bucket of water had just been poured on his face. The townspeople watched from the windows as Garth, with one wipe of his brow, rode back into the middle of town, and began to trot the opposite way from which he came.

In his fit of rage and robbery, the outlaw Garth Stetson had committed his crimes in a town where his face was known, even if he did where a bandana during his spree. Being a bounty hunter of such professionalism and efficiency, it wasn't long before the county authorities knew exactly who had committed such horrendous acts of brutality. Such a dangerous man would require a special squad of men to take down. The best bounty hunters in the state were formed into a posse to hunt down the menace. Five-hundred dollars dead. That was the only way they wanted him. This killer must be killed. There was no other way to do it.

The peace and quiet the empty barn pleased Garth, who sat on an old bale of hay, contemplating his escapade. He had made a promise to himself early in life that he would never kill anyone that fought for what was right. He had broken his promise. Hadn't he? The old sheriff he killed didn't give him what he deserved for working so hard to find his target. But then again, he was only an old man trying to do his duty to the people he had sworn to protect. And the deputy. Garth had caught a glimpse of him as he lay in a grotesque position on the ground before the bank. He was young and innocent. Garth could tell. Just like him before he became a killer.

What had he done? His rage and greed led him to stealing, hatred, and murder. Cold-blooded, ruthless, and gruesome murder. But what could he do now? What was done was done. What could he do? His actions had led him to almost certain death. He stood up and walked over to the door at the front of the barn. He stuck his single eye up to one of the cracks in the wood. A covered wagon sat in front of the door, with a mysterious object in the back. Around it were about twenty armed men. Pistols, rifles, shotguns, you name it, it was all there. It was clear they were here for one thing. It was time to face justice. Garth was at peace. His killing days were over. Now, it was time for him to face death.

Pushing the doors open, Garth marched into the deathtrap. The mysterious object in the wagon that faced the door was a Gatling gun. Its barrels, all pointed at Garth, began to rotate. Before he could mutter a word, every hunter in the battalion unleashed a hail of gunfire onto their target. Each man fired until their magazine was empty. The bounty hunter fell to the ground. His gruesome body laid in front of the posse. As a pool of blood began to form around the former outlaw's body, the bounty hunters contemplated how they would divide up the money.

The End


End file.
